


Pillars of Salt

by Argyle



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: M/M, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-02
Updated: 2008-07-02
Packaged: 2017-10-29 05:15:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/316215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gene has a history.  Sam's seen it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pillars of Salt

Gene has a history. Sam's seen it.

He's seen May 1950 in the form of a wide, crescent-shaped scar over Gene's left shoulder. An accident: the jammed machine gun on the armored car Gene had been driving went off when he hopped out to re-rig it. Damn near took his head off. But the graze still set him back twenty sutures, and he spent a week in hospital, guzzling down chicken broth and green jelly. A bad situation, but not a horrible one. The nurse who kept watch over his ward was a bit of all right, which was more than he had at home.

Home, where in October '41 his dad stubbed out a fag on Gene's forearm, one unremarkable notch on the long belt of heart-to-hearts they had and would have. So he'd been pissed, back late from the pub, and kind enough to be sick on the stoop rather than inside. Gene didn't even flinch when Stu came round with the iodine.

The scar is now small and pale. Sam runs his tongue over it in concentric circles, then nips at the tender flesh in the crook of Gene's elbow. Gene hums in approval. And yet this isn't something new: there can't be a farthing's width of Gene's skin that Sam hasn't licked, nibbled, or sucked, but they both know Sam favors the soft, the supple. Plenty of that to go around, what with the way Sam's been feeding him.

But above all that is February '66, and the faint, spiraling remnants of rope burns. He'd spent eighteen hours in the boot of a stolen Satellite – one of three in the entire city – clad in naught but pants and vest. When he got out, he could barely think for the chill in his bones. Pity for the poor Madison boys. Old Pete and Colin couldn't even pick out _themselves_ in the mirror after Gene was through with them. And that chill? Gene spent a week trying to shake it, while the burns itched like hell beneath his shirt.

Still do, sometimes. But it's not like he's afraid of being tied down. Always gets out intact, does the Gene Genie.

Sam shifts lower, all eleven stone of him pressed on Gene's trunk, his cock hard against Gene's thigh. He's steady. His breath ghosts over Gene's stomach and hips before he takes Gene in his mouth.

And Sam is very good. Sam could well suck a football through a licorice straw. Sam has obviously had practice, has had a life before A-Division.

Sam doesn't talk about it.

Oh, there're always scraps which slip out – the coach accident when Sam was a lad (neat scars on both legs, and another on his right bicep), a rugby scrum that became just a regular sort of brawl (a thin, irregular curve just below his browline), a drug bust that went pear-shaped and led to a shot in the arm (a mark which is more like a carbon of a carbon, faded and elegant, quite unlike any bullet wound Gene has ever seen) – but in the afternoon light, Sam is golden, and not for the first time, Gene thinks he must have been born to this world fully formed, about as remarkable as the fucking eleventh wonder, strung-out, sinewy, and smooth.

And so Gene breathes deep and wrenches Sam up to him, fashioning impermanent prints on Sam's shoulders. He licks Sam's lower lip as they kiss, nips at his tongue, and then swings him round 'til Sam's flat on the bed, a hand in Gene's hair as Gene worries his throat, sucks and feels warmth, leaving love-bites.

Then Gene draws their cocks together and fists them both, hand slick with sweat and precome, each stroke playing counterpoint to the ragged thrusting of Sam's hips. It only takes a minute. He can't help himself, and Sam's staring up at him, eyes bright and dark at the same time: smug bastard can never make up his mind.

It's all Gene can do to stop himself from drooping down, his frame flush with Sam's, but he rallies his strength and falls to the left. Sam smiles and shifts forward. They're so close. Gene imagines Sam must be able to feel his heart pounding, the damn thing thumping hard enough to dig through his chest.

He empties his lungs. The mess of come between them is cooling – right over August '59 (Gene's memory is sharp) and April eight-or-nine-years-ago (Sam's telling is evasive).

In another minute, Sam'll squirm away, make a beeline for the bathroom, and return with a damp flannel in hand. He'll wipe them down, and yelp a little as Gene mouths a nipple, and they'll sleep or not sleep, and later have a few drinks, and probably shag again before the evening's through.

Tomorrow, they'll be back at the station. Gene will shave in his office, and he and Sam will argue and maybe exchange a few blows, and then, because the door'll be shut, Gene will lick a wide stripe along Sam's collarbone, and Sam will murmur something unintelligible. Gene will seek out those love-bites, feeling warmth again. Sam's hands might card through his hair, but briefly, and they'll stand there, just like that, as though Skelton won't be at the entrance any moment, sheaf of reports in hand. Gene will breathe, feeling Sam's pulse.

But he won't let Sam talk him into that trip to Mexico.

And that's the future.


End file.
